I sent him some emails since the funeral, thinking maybe those messages could reach him because, like my laptop, he is not wired to anything. I still have his number in my cellphone though I know the number is no longer his and I will never call it. Deleting it would mean giving up, letting go. I like to hold onto things long enough for them to hurt. Hug too hard, kiss until my lips are sore. In my dreams I walk the tracks from one run-down town to another. It’s just my phone and me, out there between road signs. In my dreams my phone never rings and I don’t check for texts. After he died I boarded a plane, promised the clouds this was the last time I’d plow them. Walking downtown, I notice payphones are disappearing. Dial tones barely exist. I never was good at keeping promises. Mid-flight I look out the window and wonder whose death made this possible.
Kelly Jones is a librarian in training who currently calls Greensboro, NC their home. Kelly earned their MFA in Poetry from the University of New Orleans’ Creative Writing Workshop. Three of their favorite things are manatees, glitter, and Wild Turkey. In their spare time, Kelly tries to keep houseplants alive, runs The Gambler Mag, and attempts to come to terms with the concept of infinity.